


Leaving Within the Week

by o0_TheMilkyBarKid_0o



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Rough Sex, on the desk, short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23336578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o0_TheMilkyBarKid_0o/pseuds/o0_TheMilkyBarKid_0o
Summary: The soft brush of his lips was years in the making, soft, questioning, as though he was wondering if one would be enough too
Relationships: Female Amell/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 6
Kudos: 68





	Leaving Within the Week

Perhaps it was the offhand tone of her voice, or the non-committal gesture with her hands that made him look at her like that – like it was this trivial _thing_ that he clearly didn't find all that trivial.

“ _I'll be leaving within the week,”_

It was a response as good as any when he asked, gently so, if she would be spending any more time in Skyhold before she left as hastily as she arrived. _I'll be leaving within the week_ , and just like that the handsome lines and creases in his smile dropped like a stone, the papers in his hands stilling in their shuffle as he took a moment to contemplate what she'd just said to him.

She hadn't... meant to sound so _blasé_ , as if it weren't important; but then her business had been so short and formal that it wouldn't have possibly come as a _surprise_.

He looked down, around at the papers, back up to her and the hurt _hurt_ , before his eyes looked south again and he let the papers fall to the desk as they were. Over she short few days she'd spent in his company, _after all this time_ , she could tell he was the kind of man who didn't let his emotions get the better of him, didn't allow himself to falter even at the worst of news. It made sense, considering...

And yet he looked like his worst fears had been realized when she said she was leaving soon.

She stepped closer, hoping she wasn't the cause of his pain but knowing better, knowing her presence had opened up something which probably should have stayed shut, both within her and within him, and she should have had the foresight to leave well enough alone. But the hurt in his face drew her hand to his cheek, the casual intimacy feeling so terribly _right_ shouldn't have set the fire in her belly as it did, yet it was there.

And he did not stop her. Instead, he reached up to take her hand, held it like it was some delicate, wonderful thing, whispering, “I hadn't... given much thought to you leaving,”

Which followed that he hoped she was staying, and she wondered why that was, though the hazarded guess was enough to reassure. She found herself leaning her hips against the desk, again with that casual intimacy that shouldn't have felt so comfortable and so _comforting_ when it was accepted, and when he moved so that he was standing in front of her with that weight in his face like he had too many words in his mouth, the comfort of their proximity was all that was keeping her from bolting out that door.

Because she knew if he asked her to stay there was no denying him.

They had been dancing around each other since her arrival, pretending that the incredible electricity wasn't there, after a ten year absence, yet she stood against his desk with him against her, holding her gloved hand and looking down at the divots between her knuckles and trying to form the words he wanted so badly to say but had so much trouble doing so.

She both did and didn't want to hear them. Her duty should have come first, the idea that in a few years she would be poisoned by the very thing that brought her such power, that she was tainted and had an entire army to lead, a righteous purpose to follow.

And all of that would not be half as important as hearing that he... _felt_ for her.

It was a foolish thought in the Tower, yet it followed her for ten years and it seemed to follow him as well, despite time and circumstance.

His thumbs traced firm circles around her knuckles; “I will admit I'm rather disappointed to see you leave,” it was rushed, hurried, as his mouth twisted like he didn't even believe himself, “But I... well, I feel it should go without saying, th-though I will say it...”

He looked up, into her eyes that time, and their casual intimacy was suddenly _more;_ a real, tangible reciprocation, one that was brushed-off the first time she'd greeted him and perhaps lingered on his arm a little too long, looked into his eyes a little too longingly – but was now stark and fascinatingly clear.

His mouth seemed _very_ close, and it drew her vision as he uttered; “I will say that I... am _glad_ we were able to reconnect. After all this time it was _good_ to see you again, and I'll... _I'll_...”

But wasn't there more, _really_? Wasn't there _more_ to the way they stood together like the space between them was useless filler, more to the slide of his eyes down her face, just like they did when he was young and naive and trying not to look like he was about to ravish her in the halls?

More to the way he seemed to abandon the words and then she was lost entirely in the gaze that said what his mouth couldn't, like she'd always _wanted_ to though there were other gaps that separated them that had nothing to do with the Chantry, not any longer.

She'd meant to comfort, not seduce, yet as he moved closer and their casual intimacy suddenly didn't seem so offhand, _so non-committal_ , she found she couldn't pull away, not for duty or the thoughts of what tomorrow or the next week or the end would bring in terms of pain and longing, as long as he kissed her like he looked like he was planning to. Because she'd longed enough, even in moments where he was the furthest thing from her mind, she'd never quite let the feeling leave her.

And having him so close, so _close_ his hand let go of hers and cupped the back of her neck, the other to her hip trapped between him and the desk, she could no more deny him than she could herself, and her honest truth of what she wanted.

_**One kiss,**_ _that will be enough,_ she thought, but as his eyes slipped to her mouth again and she thought of how _Maker's Breath_ how _handsome_ he is, and she knew it wouldn't be. The desire for him was stronger – if anything – than her adolescent fantasy she'd cooked up for herself in the Tower of escaping and eloping with him to some foreign land, as if fairytales ever came true. It would override every sense of honour and duty she had in its burning wake, until there was nothing left if she could only _have_ him-

The soft brush of his lips was years in the making, soft, questioning, as though _he_ was wondering if one would be enough too, and as she trembled under his ministrations, eyes glued to the soft, fleshy pinkness of his lower lip she could see the resolve cracking in his face as he leaned and took another, longer, _lingering_ kiss.

It didn't stop there, of _course_ it didn't. Ten years and she'd somehow assumed that the trivial little crush of hers would change even though when she did think of him it was always _fondly_ , despite his ire towards the end. That's why she followed when he dared to pull away, eyes closed and stance questioning, and she'd let herself lean forward to take another kiss as though it were her right to steal one back, reciprocal as they were, and it was longer still.

Longer, _and longer_ , until her hands had fisted in his coat and she could feel the harsh dragging of his breath through his nose, until somewhere their mouths had parted and there was a slip of tongue, a kiss, and then _more_.

And longer until she could feel him leaning forward, leaning until she was afraid she would fall back onto the scrolls and parchment under her and wondering if he wanted her there by the stiffness in his shoulders and neck, by the way he wouldn't let up and he _had_ to know she was barely keeping her balance.

She never fell because he sort of carried her there, with fumbling, unsure hands that seemed so very large to her then, _he_ seemed so large. Her thighs had parted because she wanted them to, legs around his flanks and he was so big, _Maker_ but all of him was so _big_ ; the wide breadth of his shoulders and the questing dominance of his tongue and his hand, so big it almost cupped the entire left side of her face cradling her as he moaned like _he_ was the small one.

A... _concern_ for discretion crossed her mind as he started pulling at laces, undoing buttons and belt-buckles, armour and furs clattering and falling to the floor, but in the wake of her _needing_ him at the sound of that unmistakably hot moan he made when his bare hand met the warm skin of her stomach through the folds of her shirt, _that_ made her shove her concerns to the wayside.

Were a recruit or a soldier or the Inquisitor to walk-in they would surely get a right eye-full, but she found it hard to care when she arched deliciously at the feeling of his hands on her breasts, wishing, _aching_ that they didn't do this years ago with more awkward fumbling and barely contained giggling, but knowing that _then_ would never have _been;_ they were both too naive and sweet for that. But obviously not enough for the hot press of his mouth on her nipples, kissing and tonguing with a sort of sexual arrogance that made her idly wonder what part of the Chant he'd picked _that_ up from.

She'd shoved his trousers down with her feet, and there were only a few blistering seconds of _unspeakable_ pleasure, her shirt still half-open with his mouth still working those fiery kisses on swollen nipples, his under-shirt had been shoved up to his waist and his trousers down around his knees as they ground together, hot bare skin on skin and Maker but she was so fucking _wet_ -

He was within her in an instant in a firm, shuddering stroke and he choked, and so did she, squeezing too-wide biceps in each hand as he loomed over her with his largeness making her seem so small and so _vulnerable_ , looking down with golden-brown eyes and _red_ cheeks and a wet, disbelieving mouth from where it had been paying homage to her breast in burning kisses. His slack expression, devoid of everything but how _good_ it seemed to feel, would be branded into her memory for the rest of her short, Warden lifespan.

As he grasped her hips and thrust, dragging her onto his cock and moaning like he wasn't sure how it could feel the way it did, she watched him with a fascination she knew would never be fully wrested again until she saw him from a different angle, looking so openly _good_ and flushed and sexual as he took her, _hard_ , the desk jerking and the scrolls rolling to the floor at every firm stroke, filling her so completely full with him that she wondered if she would feel bereft when it all ended.

The desk, sturdy as it was, took the abuse of him slamming her hips into it, and she was wondering if perhaps the Inquisitor, the recruits or the soldiers weren't walking-in because of the sounds of wet, striking flesh and her high, almost _surprised_ sounding moaning - because she'd never thought that _Cullen_ would be so audacious as to take her as he was; rutting her against the desk like he was trying to leave an indentation of her arse against the lip of the polished mahogany. She wrapped her legs around his waist as the thrusts got faster, and faster _still_ , trying to hold on with her fingernails digging crescent shapes into arms and arching her head back because it can't end now, not _now_ when she finally had him in her-

But she couldn't stop the tumble towards real ecstasy, the rough sound of his harsh groaning in her ear and knowing that _this_ was _Cullen_ , the man who ruled a lot of her idle fantasying both in the Tower and occasionally in the Wardens, who was now inside her and _fucking_ her like a man possessed with the single-minded purpose of having her, so much so that it overrode the professional decorum he had around her and the respect for his troops needing his attentions.

He was fucking her like he _needed_ to, and looking down at her with watering eyes because he knew from this she would be gone and just once wasn't enough, would _never_ be enough. Not one kiss, not one quick screw on his desk despite the incredible passion.

It all laid them bare and she wanted to reach up and cover those too-honest eyes with her hands because the truth was frightening and beautiful, too much, just like the hot feeling of him in her – nothing would ever compare-

She was lost in it, lost in _him_ , and so was he with those eyes, with that look, and she was coming and _moaning_ his name because she didn't know what to do with such sensation overloading every piece of her, legs clenching so hard around his waist he nearly stopped his reckless thrusting entirely just to let her lose herself in that burning, _burning_ -

No, no he was faltering because he was coming too, his jaw dropping and cock throbbing in her abused passage and his arms trembling and their gazes _locked_ like they were sharing it, passing it between each other like the words neither of them could say, but had to make-do with heated looks and side-ways glances of lust and longing, of care and passion.

It was too much, it was all _so_ much, and after all this time spent apart and then being so _together_ , even knowing in moments it would end and they would go back to being _Commanders_ of different people, it seemed like so much all at once.

An onslaught of sensation. All-consuming. _Burning._

_**Devastatingly perfect.** _

He fell, landed against her with heaving breaths and shaking limbs, and she held him like she didn't want to let him go because she didn't. When, _Maker_ _ **when**_ would it ever be so perfect again?

Despite the rushed hastiness of it, despite the quick, hot rutting nature of it and the location of it, it couldn't have possibly been anything more or anything less than what she saw in his eyes – his absolute desire for her built up over ten years and the short time she'd spent in Skyhold around him, and seeing that was more than enough.

She hoped she'd conveyed something similar, if it in any way alleviated his concerns or hang-ups about how she felt.

It took them some time to part, and she felt that bereftness as he slid out of her and suddenly she was so empty and longing without him, so startlingly unburdened as he pulled his trousers up with a smirk at her dishevelled appearance, bare under his eyes and half-naked, legs spread with _him_ dripping from between them. He helped her up with careful hands, and their brief exhausted kissing between spoke more of how reluctant they were to part than the act they'd just participated in.

When their clothes had been righted with some fumbling, their hair smoothed back and their expressions cultivated into something more modest, she felt better seeing the lustful glimmer in his eye than she would ever, readily admit, because _no_ , once would _not_ be enough.


End file.
